Skittles
by freeflymore
Summary: "'There must be something wrong with you,' they said. 'You weren't always like this.' As if she could be shiny and new again. And so she was stuck here, in this god-forsaken place."


_No one knew the real her. No one really seemed to want to know the real her. So she hid herself from the world. Well, until she didn't._

* * *

She was the popular girl. Everyone liked her. She did everything they she was expected to and did everything she was told to do. She straightened her hair and parted it to the left. She buttoned her shirts to just the right button and always tucked them into her skirts. She ate her vegetables and never missed a meal. She remembered her parents' birthdays and told them 'I love you.'

But something was missing. She felt too perfect; she never did anything wrong. Sometimes, she would feel the urge to do something bad, something forbidden, but she would always shake it off and think nothing of it.

Until one day, on her way into school, she saw the stoners huddled at a corner of the school wall, laughing hysterically at something only they could see. It was unfair that they were actually enjoying their screwed-up lives when she felt caged in hers. She threw caution to the wind and walked her perfect preppy ass to them. Too stoned to care, and maybe even notice, they continued to guffaw at whatever they were hallucinating. Without hesitation, she snatched the closest blunt from one of them and took a long drag, just as they had done before her. As she exhaled, she felt all the tension in her body evaporate and for once in her life, she felt calm and unburdened; nothing could get to her. Even the idea of doing something bad, felt so right.

Despite the strange looks everyone gave her, it became her morning routine to smoke at the school corner. As each day passed, she wore less and less pink and began adding reds and blacks to her wardrobe. Her skirts got shorter and her pants tighter, her lips redder, her makeup darker. And to everyone she was _hot_. She wasn't just pretty Rosalie Hale, 'that girl that goes to your school and has a lot of friends.' No, she was Rosalie Hale, 'that girl who's smoking hot and gets invited to every party and all the girls are jealous.'

Pretty soon she smoked, drank, and fucked her way through the rest of high school; the world was her playground. All the boys wanted a piece of her and every girl wanted to know how to be her. 'Well,' she would say, 'just smoke, drink, and fuck like I do.' So of course, that's what they did. The power she held over the insipid minds of her peers excited her. The freedom to do what she pleased intoxicated her. And the sex was just phenomenal.

* * *

"_Skittles?" she laughed. "You brought me skittles again?"_

"_Yeah. Think of it as my way of saying you're special. No matter what other people might think, no matter what it is, or whatever this is, and no matter where this whatever goes, I think that you're something special. Someone special. And you always will be."_

* * *

She couldn't trust it. No matter how much she trusted him and no matter how much she loved him, she couldn't do it. Too many times had she been screwed over. Too many times she fell for the lies and right into their grasp.

She was hooked and was never quite able to relieve the need that scratched at the back of her mind. It had become too much. She was edgy, skeptical, and just waiting for the next kick. And so despite all the things that were going good, she returned to what she knew best.

"Got a light?" she muttered at the doorman. He dug in his pocket and lit her cig. Despite the inconspicuous wrapping, the familiar _cannibis_ aroma permeated through the air. The corner of the doorman's lip twitched, impressed with the ways kids broke rules in plain sight these days. The sheer carelessness, as if the shackles of society didn't touch them.

She probably shouldn't have snorted that coke. That delicious white powder. She had been seduced by the sight and let the other girls in the bathroom convince her to play along. She only needed to piss, but the offer was enticing and she found herself reaching for the straw.

Ten minutes later, she had known it was a terrible idea. She was paranoid and jumpy and she was having a hard time maintaining her carefully crafted façade. And so here she was, blunt in hand, ignoring the looks the doorman was giving her.

She shouldn't even be here. _What was she doing at this guy's apartment anyways?_ She had vaguely remembered him from high school, but he had graduated years ago. It was her first weekend as a high school graduate, her celebrated last summer before life began anew. It was all bogus. She wasn't going anywhere and they all knew it. She was smart, she was never going to give that up. But from all the lectures she'd received, they didn't think she'd make it in college and neither did she. _Oh yeah, that's why she was here_.

Wrinkling her nose at her future prospects, she turned to head back into the building. Passing the outdoor ash stand, she stamped out cig before slipping it back into her pocket. Probably another bad decision, but at least catching fire would get rid of all her shitty problems.

As she reached the lobby elevator, the doors opened with a loud _bing_. Out stepped Royce King the Second. It was a little behind the times to name your children with Roman numerals, but the Kings were as old-fashioned as they come. Royce was a senior when she was a freshman and he was the resident bad boy. He tried college, didn't like it and dropped out. He came back to town and worked in the family garage while living with the 'rents. Rumor said he joined a gang, but of course if he did, no one would know.

She had passed the garage every day on her way home from school. He was ripped and apparently a hot commodity. She would never admit it, but most days she found herself admiring how his sweat beaded across his muscles as he worked on the cars. There was something about him, or the cars, or the muscle, or maybe all three that made her panties wet. But he was older and it would never happen. And yet, here she was, face-to-face with him.

"Heading up?" he asked.

"Uh, yeah," she said awkwardly, not really sure how to handle this. There were boys, and then there were _men_. She was used to dealing with the former, rather than the latter.

"Eh," he shook his head. "It's getting pretty lame. I'm heading out."

"Oh… Well then I guess there's no point going back."

"Yeah, you walk here? How 'bout I give you a ride," he offered, as if he already knew her answer. Despite his uber hotness and his rep as the high school demigod, he always struck her as little on the sleazy side. Some men had "Look but Don't Touch" signs hanging around their necks and he just might have been one of them.

She was about to decline when "Why not?" popped out of her mouth. _Damnit, why was high Rose such a fucking slut?_

"Perfect," he all but purred. He looped his arm about her shoulder and walked her back out of the building. Across the street, his bright red BMW R 1200 was conspicuously parked. It was situated halfway into two separate parking spots, daring any bumbling vehicles to come near it. It was sleek and sporty and even had space for a second rider. It was beautiful.

Royce pulled out a pair of tacky biker gloves. He had received his helmet from the lobby receptionist and pulled out a second helmet from an awkward looking box attached to the back of his bike. _Cocky, much?_

_A ride's a ride_, she reminded herself. She was very far from sober and the walk would be long and dark. She could put up with Royce for the 10-minute ride through the city.

She pulled on the helmet and climbed onto the bike, wrapping her arms around Royce's torso. The second the bike's engine caught, he roared off. She screamed at the sudden acceleration, shutting her eyes tight. She couldn't help but tighten her grip on Royce for fear of falling off.

Once her body became accustomed to the speed of the bike, she opened her eyes. She watched as the building zoomed past. The bike hummed under her, warming her core. She couldn't explain it, but the wind rushing through her hair, her thighs gripping the metal, the power revving beneath her, it made her feel amazing.

* * *

"_No, Rosalie." The old codger was being a massive cunt again._

"_Please, it will only be for a minute," she whined._

"_You've already had your one minute."_

"_But that was three days ago!"_

"_There are strict rules about what you are allowed to have and this is one of them."_

"_This is blasphemy!" she shouted. "It's unethical, outrageous!"_

"_Now you're just making a scene."_

"_Aren't I a human being? Don't I have rights? I did not vote for fucking Obama for this shit! Things are supposed to be changing!" She knew she shouldn't, but she couldn't help herself. She needed to feel something. Anything._

"_Nurse," the hag called, "please escort Miss Hale back to her room. She has just lost her building privileges. Orderly McCarthy will be assigned to her daily routine. If she leaves her room, she's not allowed out of his sight."_

_It was all so unfair. She didn't belong here. Nobody understood. Her parents had sticks shoved so far up their asses that they couldn't _cope_ with her so-called outlandish behavior anymore. Well maybe she was tired of their fucking demands and the hypocrisy and…_

'_There must be something wrong with you,' they said. 'You weren't always like this.' As if she could be shiny and new again. And so she was stuck here, in this god-forsaken place._

* * *

She had rested her head on Royce's shoulder and her eyes had drifted shut at some point. But now, the bike stopped and the engine turned off. Were they at her house already? She'd have to invest in one in the future. These things were fast.

She slid off the bike, pulling her helmet off. Shaking her hair loose, she took in her surroundings. This was _not_ her neighborhood.

"Royce?"

"Yeah, babe?"

"Where are we?"

"Just a buddy's house. You wanna party some more?"

"Well, I was actually just hoping to go home. So if you wouldn't mind…" she trailed off. He did not look happy. With a slight frown, he stepped closer to her, pulling her to him. His arm was securely around her waist when he answered.

"Stay a while. I guarantee it will make your night," he drawled. His mouth was by her ear, as if this was supposed to be seductive. And did he just _smell_ her? She pushed his arm away.

"Really, I'm actually done for the night."

"Stay," he insisted. She took another look around. Nothing. None of these buildings were familiar. She couldn't place any of the street names and she would get utterly lost trying to make her way home. So she found herself following him into the nearest residence.

* * *

"_Morning, Rosalie." This was part of his usual routine. He woke her up at precisely 8:30 AM every day. His orderly uniform was pristinely ironed and a crisp white. Even his nametag sat evenly on his chest. It shamed her._

_He was a year older, but she remembered drinking, smoking, and fucking with him. He had been one of the better lays. He was always sweet to her, despite her reputation. He was just one of those guys that had been raised right._

_And now, a year and a half later, he was taking care of her. Again. They started out in the same place, in the same shitty, hateful, smoke-filled, alcohol-soaked pit. But she crashed and burned while he was making something of himself. Helping those in need. Her._

_He had put off taking his MCATs and applying to medical school. He wanted to have more experience before committing himself to a life of late nights and university loans. She wouldn't have even made it in community college. If she even bothered to apply._

_She remembered that he was always snacking on something. At school, at practice, at parties, it didn't matter. He always had something in his mouth. Snickers, tootsie rolls, caramels, Kit Kats, Almond Joys, Thin Mints. You name it, he ate it._

_Today was no different. Today he had Skittles._

* * *

Her head was spinning and there was a distinct throbbing behind her eyes. She had made someone in the house get her a glass of water, but it didn't seem to be helping. In fact, it felt like she was getting worse by the second. It wouldn't be long before she puked if her vision kept swimming.

"I-I don't feel so good." Was she slurring? Was it just her or did she sound wasted?

"Come with me, babe. I'll take good care of you." His breath was revolting. It fanned over her face, warm and moist. It reeked of cigarettes and alcohol. She could feel her stomach lurch, that tell-tale sign.

"I need to vom," she ground out. She headed to the bathroom as quick as she could. There was no way she was going to vomit on herself. _No way_.

* * *

_Every morning, after breakfast, he would see her eying his candy. He always offered and she always declined. But there was something about today. She wanted some._

_He handed her a red one. The crunch beneath her teeth felt foreign. The food they served was soft in comparison. Most likely to discourage patients from committing suicide by choking to death. She welcomed the sugar, reveled in the artificial flavoring._

"_They remind me of you." She looked at him, questioning. "They're hard on the outside, but on the inside they're sweet and soft."_

"_Everything about them is fake. Factory-processed to look and taste desirable," she added. He was right. They were the candy version of her._

"_I wouldn't put it that way…" He really hated it when she made everything depressing. He always tried to compliment her to improve her spirits, but somehow she managed to negate every pleasant thought. He knew that when she got like this, it was best to leave her with her thoughts._

"_Well let me know if you need anything, Rosalie. I've got to make my rounds."_

_She regretted his departure, but it was hard being around him. He was so optimistic and she so pessimistic. He used to make her laugh at the stupidest things. Where did that go? When did that end?_

* * *

The mattress beneath her was light. A welcome change from the hard tile of the bathroom floor. The ceiling panels were arranged in a neat pattern. The holes in the Styrofoam-like material were like constellations. A sea of foam. A sky of wormholes. If she reached out, she felt she could touch the night sky. Would it suck her up into outerspace? Maybe the alien men will treat her nicely.

The end of the bed sunk beneath her feet. Her head lolled with the movement. Royce. Did he want to see the aliens too? Hopefully they had enough room on their planet for two extra.

There was something wet and sticky on her cheek. It was also on the pillow. He didn't seem to mind. Maybe it was because his mouth was wet too. He stuck his tongue in her mouth, but that was wrong. More stickiness came from her mouth with a cough. It was on her chin and her neck now. She couldn't quite reach it though, her hands were bolted down.

_Good, he must be preparing for take off. At least he remembered to strap me in first_.

He started taking off her clothes. Then his. Maybe he had more experience with the aliens than she did. This was probably a part of their custom. They probably preferred visitors naked. That way they would know they weren't a threat.

Without warning, he plunged his key in the ignition. _No, no, this wasn't right. The aliens wouldn't like this!_ she screamed. But he didn't hear her.

The cogs weren't oiled. The rocket was still asleep, the gears rusted. Despite the shearing of metal on metal, he kept pushing, driving harder and harder. Their takeoff was premature and it clawed at her engine. But now, the pilot was steering them into space. This ride wouldn't stop until they reached their destination.

_He forgot the protective space suits and the oxygen tanks,_ she thought lazily. She was tired and wanted to go home. She didn't want to see the aliens anymore. She wanted to return to Earth. Her parents were waiting for her. Missing her.

She searched her surroundings for the self-eject lever. Then she spotted it. It was shiny and gold, the base a plastic black. The figurine on top had its arms outstretched by its head, legs together with toes pointed. It was flying, like Superman. Soon she would be doing the same. She just had to let it go.

As it fell, it glittered in the light. Winking at her, like a shooting star. It hit his head, but only poked her cheek. She frowned. She had wanted it to release her, not him. He could stay and visit the aliens, she wanted to leave. Still, she felt weightless. Maybe when it took him, it also took her gravity.

But she was tired now. She would figure out what to say to the aliens tomorrow. She closed her eyes and let the darkness claim her.

* * *

_It was their ritual. After lunch, he would make his rounds to check the other patients. Then they would take a walk around the grounds. It was her favorite part of the day._

_The weather was much warmer now and the flowers were blooming. The garden was well tended to. There was a special spot with her favorites, calla lilies. It was also more secluded._

_There were several times where she had tried seducing him here, but he was a model employee. He refused to rise to the bait and averted his eyes when she asked him to her redress. Even though he had already seen her in all her pale glory, there were times she would catch him blushing. It was cute._

_But now, they just came out here to talk. And eat Skittles. He was convinced the red ones were the best and he always gave them to her. She didn't mind. They were pretty good._

_Although their relationship was different and usually frowned upon, the doctors found that it improved her mood and she was beginning to make some progress in her recovery. So they allowed it._

_Sometimes he let her hold his hand. It was firm and calloused, but his touch was delicate. But they only did this in the privacy of the garden where the calla lilies were their only witnesses._

* * *

Staring. She spent a lot of time doing it. And sleeping. And not sleeping.

The drugs, she stopped. The fucking, she stopped. The drinking, she stopped. But none of it helped. It couldn't erase what had already been.

A month after _it_ happened, she was done with the hospital and the courts and the fucking doctors and lawyers asking for shit. She already felt dead. She might as well have been dead. So why did they keep killing her over and over again?

Her bike. It was the only thing that calmed her mind. It had been a pity gift from her parents. They didn't know what to do with her, so they paid up. The thrumming between her thighs and the rev of the engine empowered her. On her beemer she was untouchable, unbreakable.

When she stared, her mind was empty. When she slept, her mind was on overdrive. The emptiness was loud and the nightmares never ended. But on her bike, her mind was clear. Only thoughts of the streets and cars rushing past were present. She loved how the skyline, the neighborhood, and the people changed as she raced by.

"Five speeding tickets, two parking fines, and three accidents in four months!" her mother screeched. Although it sounded like she was in trouble, she knew her mother would never do anything. The elder Hale actually enjoyed the growing tally because she got to rub in her daughter's face how much of a fuck up she was.

"Mrs. Hale, I knew we never should have purchased that death trap. Even if Miss Rosalie doesn't hurt herself, she's bound to destroy everything around her with it." What she hated most was how her parents dealt with her. Like she was some problem child they weren't responsible for raising. As if they weren't a fucking family.

* * *

"_Good afternoon, Miss Hale."_

"_I don't need therapy."_

"_From what I'm told, you attempted to commit suicide."_

"_I did not commit suicide."_

"_You slit your wrists and did not call for help."_

"_Why would I try to kill myself when I'm already dead?"_

"_Why do you think you're already dead?"_

"_Nice. Answer a question with a question."_

"_This was your second serious hospital visit in six months."_

"_It wasn't my fault."_

"_No one is faulting you, but your parents are concerned. They don't want you to try to hurt yourself anymore."_

"_Ha, like they care."_

"_You sound bitter. Are you angry at your parents?"_

"_My parents left me here because they didn't want to deal with me. So yeah, I guess you could say I'm angry."_

"_Your parents don't have the resources to keep you from harming yourself. This is a safe place with doctors on call twenty-four hours a day."_

"_I don't need doctors. I know what's wrong with me."_

"_Yes, but we need to work past the wrong until you feel right again."_

_She paused. She hadn't felt right in years. What could they do to fix her after all this time?_

"_How do you presume to fix me, Herr Doctor?"_

"_Ahem, first we will discuss that night until you can come to terms with what happened. It is vital that deep in your subconscious you do not blame yourself."_

"_And then what?" Dare she feel hopeful?_

"_That's entirely up to you."_

* * *

"No!" she screeched. It was a piercing sound. At this point, her parents had adjusted themselves to her nightmares. Her screams used to keep them up at night, but now they could lull themselves back to sleep when they heard the shower faucet squeak open.

Her nights were usually filled with taunting memories. Like a broken record, her mind replayed the same scene every night. Where she had been docile and unresponsive at the time, now she fought with every fiber of her being. The imaginary Royce didn't appreciate her newfound strength and would wound her worse than the original had.

Unlike the real thing, her nightmares never released her from the horror. It was endless and only her shouts in the waking world could stir her. Each time she woke, she felt dirty, used, soiled. She would run to the shower and scrub every inch of her skin until it was raw. The pain was nothing, a necessity. She needed to be clean again.

But tonight, it was different. She couldn't shake the feeling of being tied down, shackled, restrained. Her wrists felt heavy, as if weights were strapped to them.

Panicking, she ran to the kitchen, drawing out the Spyderco chef's knife. She remembered when her mother brought the entire knife set home. She had been so proud of herself, declaring that she was going to turn herself into a world-class chef with this set of knives. They ended up eating out that night after her mother burned dinner, too busy gossiping with her friends about the Royal Wedding.

It was cool against her skin, its blade still sharp from its one-time use. It would easily cut the bonds that were holding her down. The edge glided gracefully across her veins. Blood instantly welled on the surface, but the burden was lifted. She was floating. As she sat on the floor, leaning against the cupboards, she laid her wrists down next to her. She closed her eyes and let herself drift along the river of red.

* * *

"_Em," she asked, suddenly nervous, toes curling over the ledge, 'would you do it with me?'_

"_Rosie, I'd follow you anywhere."_

_She still had much progress ahead of her, but this would be the first time she saw her parents since they left her here. It had been over six months and she wasn't going to let them bully her into submission. She was going to be who she wanted to be: a girl who loves a boy that brings her Skittles._


End file.
